Eastern Star
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale both have scars - battle scars, punishment scars, scars of ownership. But now that they're free of Heaven and Hell, they only want to belong to themselves and each other. So Aziraphale comes up with a way to cover those scars, and brand them as lovers. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'Eastern Star'. To my knowledge, the Order of the Eastern Star are free masons. I didn't want to go that route, so I chose the interpretation 'Star of Bethlehem' from the Gospel of Matthew. And in the grand tradition of stories that ran away from me, this one is longer than expected. But meh. XD**_

"There," Aziraphale sighs, slowing his hips, unraveling his rhythm, settling his weight on the back of Crowley's thighs. "All finished, my dear."

"_It's_ finished? Or _you're_ finished?" Crowley moans into his crossed arms.

"Take a look," his angel invites, lifting up carefully and rolling onto the bed beside him. Aziraphale looks well and thoroughly fucked out – eyelids barely staying open, limbs limp, in no hurry to cover himself, so not a care in the world. In his hand, he holds a metal plate, engraved with pictures and symbols. It's pitch black, so cool to the touch. If that's the case, then Crowley is right.

They're both finished.

Crowley peeks over his shoulder and grins contentedly at the mark seared into his skin. It doesn't burn anymore, not now that the oppressive metal plate has done its job. It never really hurt. Crowley just complained in an attempt to get sympathy from his angel in the form of praise and kisses and a longer fuck.

To be honest, the intense heat turned him on.

"How does it look?" Crowley asks. He didn't go into this sight unseen. He saw the iron stamp when Aziraphale created it, approved of the image before they tossed it into the fireplace to heat. But Crowley craves praise. He came making love and is thoroughly satisfied.

But he's a selfish beast. If he can finagle a little more, he's going to take it.

"Glorious!" Aziraphale says breathlessly. "Absolutely stunning!"

"Now, are you remarking on your artistic skills, or …?"

"Possibly …" Aziraphale smirks "… but an artist is really only as good as his subject. And his tools."

"You're lying! No artist in the world has ever said that!"

"_I'm_ an artist and _I'm_ saying it," Aziraphale pouts. "Besides, my dear, you make an _exceptional_ canvas."

And there it is. The praise he was longing for. Crowley bites his lower lip, rests his chin on his arms.

"I love you, you know," he admits, looking not at Aziraphale, but at their reflection in the mirror – the two of them together, lying side by side.

"I know." Aziraphale rolls closer, cuddles into Crowley's side, making a silent demand for an arm around him. "Now _everybody_ knows."

"It wasn't much of a secret, angel," Crowley says, shifting on his side and obliging.

"True. But for the longest time, it was something others saw more clearly than I did." Aziraphale takes his lover's hands and threads their fingers together, runs a thumb down the long fingers that helped sear him as well. He winds their arms together, Crowley's pale skin wrapped over fresh marks on Aziraphale's arms that make up the intricately carved scales of a black serpent. "Now, that's changed. And change is good."

* * *

They come up with the idea naked in bed after making love, which is when the best ideas come. When passions cool but the need for touch remains, they start comparing scars.

So many scars.

Aziraphale has more than Crowley. Battle scars, yes, but also punishment scars - some Heaven inflicted, others self-inflicted. Crowley can't tell the difference unless he touches them, uses his power to divine their sources.

They look so much the same.

Aziraphale could have healed them, but he left them as reminders of whom to trust, whom to love.

Whom to obey.

Crowley has similar scars, but the majority of his, he's miracled away. He likes his human façade too much to leave it damaged and besides, he doesn't need reminders.

He doesn't _want_ reminders.

Hell had their ways of reminding him daily who he is and what he's worth. No need to wear it on his skin.

Now that he and Aziraphale are free of Heaven and Hell, he has better reminders.

Some of his scars, he's unable to get rid of, or even cover. The power that created them was too strong - several on his back in particular, where his wings were ripped from his body when he Fell.

Those will never go away.

Aziraphale traces them with his fingertips, dancing lightly along the outlines of the ragged bruises flush against the spot where his demon wings emerge, fascinated by them the way children often explore the taboo. Or perhaps he's imagining that this is how his own back will look soon if he continues like this.

An angel falling in love with a demon is unheard of. He'll surely be cast down eventually … right?

Crowley chooses not to dwell on it. Instead, he shuts his eyes and absorbs his angel's touch, surrenders to how good it feels to have him caress a part of himself that he exposes to no one. He doesn't notice when Aziraphale's fingers skate over his shoulders and down his arms, exploring smaller scars, lighter scars.

Scars a bit more perplexing in their origins.

"Did you … do these to yourself?" he asks so innocently that Crowley can't conceive of lying to him.

"Yeah, well … you know … maybe," he stammers, pushing up onto his elbows and reaching for a shirt to throw on.

To hide them.

"Why?"

Crowley's eyes snap to Aziraphale's arms, to the fading silver whip marks there. "I think you know why."

"You don't like them," he states plainly.

"Why would I?" Crowley says, his question rhetorical, biting with shame.

"Would you object to covering them?" Aziraphale steps forward, reaches out but leaves a gap between them, offering Crowley comfort but giving him space to turn him down. "To _me_ covering them? You could … cover mine as well."

Crowley tilts his head, intrigued but unwilling to admit it. "And how would I do that?"

"A tattoo?"

"Tattoo on you?" Crowley shrugs. "Might fade."

"I don't want it to fade. That's not the point." Aziraphale glances around, searching for a solution amongst the items in the room. They're in a demon's bedroom, after all. There has to be something in here that will leave a mark.

Aside from Crowley's bed, a small table, a large dresser, and a fireplace, there's little else.

Aziraphale stares into the fire, watches the flames hop and swirl, listens to the popping wood, eyes the metal tools in their stand on the hearth.

For the life of him, he doesn't know why he thinks of it, but once he does, it fills his head, strikes him as a logical solution. A wonderful idea.

Insane, but wonderful.

"You can give me a brand! A-and I'll brand you!"

Crowley's face pinches. "Like _cattle_?"

Aziraphale frowns. "No, not like cattle! Humans do it."

"To _slaves_."

Aziraphale makes a face. He'd somehow overlooked that. "Yes, but, that's not the sort of brand I'm thinking of. Believe it or not, it was quite the trend back in the day."

Crowley laughs, to stall more than out of amusement. "Now which day was that, angel? Because we've lived _thousands_ of them."

"I used to see young men and women come into my shop with brands all the time," Aziraphale continues, refusing to be deterred. "Some of them were quite _extraordinary_."

Crowley sighs. Aziraphale isn't going to let this go. "Are you sure that's something you want to do?" he asks softly, taking Aziraphale's offered hand in his and reaching for his other. "I don't think Heaven is going to look too kindly on you wearing a brand from a _demon_." He pauses to let that sink in. Aziraphale has a tendency to act on a whim, not consider the consequences. If Crowley had a pound for every time he's pulled Aziraphale's neck from the gallows, he'd be a rich demon – far and away richer than he is now. If Heaven hasn't cast Aziraphale down yet, this might be the tipping point. "You know what a brand will mean, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Aziraphale says, staring purposefully into Crowley's face as he does, "or I wouldn't have suggested it. Oh …" Aziraphale's eyes go wide and Crowley thinks it's finally hit him. Saying it out loud must have done it, caused him to reconsider the severity of what he's asking for. Now he'll change his mind, thank _Someone_. And Crowley will agree because they will have dodged a bullet. A _big_ one.

So big, he won't even tease him over it.

_Much_.

"Are you afraid that other demons will think that you _belong_ to me? In the _servant_ sense?"

Nope. No such luck.

But oddly, Crowley discovers, he'd have been disappointed if Aziraphale _had_ changed his mind.

"I _do_ belong to you, angel. In _all_ senses. And I don't care who knows it. Mark me up all you want. But, I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me."

"Yes, I can."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Why does Crowley have to make everything so difficult? "No you can't. I'll prove it to you. Do me first."

Disappointed or not, Crowley finds himself backing away. "I … I don't know. That seems … _wrong_."

"Wrong? How can it be wrong, my dear, if it's what I want?"

"I don't … I still … I mean …"

"Do this for me?" Aziraphale's soft beg silences Crowley cold. "Please? I've belonged to Heaven for so long now. Don't leave their mark on me. Replace it with one of your own."

Aziraphale's eyes meet Crowley's and hold them. Crowley isn't wearing his glasses. They're both still naked. There are no barriers between them. Together like this, flaws exposed, scars unveiled, could be the most vulnerable they've been around one another.

It's the most vulnerable they've been around anyone, even the sides that owned them.

And they were _owned_.

There's no love lost for Crowley. He had no illusions that Hell and its demons were some sort of family to him.

But for Aziraphale …

He was kept prisoner by the hands of God Almighty Herself. She'd tasked Aziraphale to spread love to her favored creations, but how much love did She show him in return? She all but forgot about him on Earth, left Her goons to terrorize him, and yet he still fought for the greater good.

_Her_ greater good.

Her ineffable plan.

But he's free now.

They're finally both free, and yet Aziraphale still wants to belong.

To _him_.

Crowley feels the same except in his mind, he's always belonged to Aziraphale.

Here's one of many chances he has to show it. By giving Aziraphale something he wants. Something no one else can give him.

Crowley nods. "Okay, angel. Okay."

* * *

Marking up an angel is a tricky business.

Heaven has their methods.

So does Hell.

In both cases, they're meant to inflict as much pain – or humiliation – as possible.

Crowley doesn't want to hurt Aziraphale, and he definitely doesn't want to humiliate him. He wants this to be a positive experience. A bonding experience. Sharing their scars with one another has brought them closer together.

This has the potential to bring them closer still.

Crowley doesn't want to use a knife on Aziraphale. Or a needle. Those seem like crude instruments. Impersonal. Plus, they wouldn't be able to handle the fire he'll need to leave the marks he's planning on making. He could use his fingernails, but as personal as that would be, it also seems violent. He wants a device, like a tattoo gun, or a paint brush.

Or a pen.

_How about a quill?_

He unfurls his wings and plucks out a single feather. His feathers are strong, and coming from a demon, a perfect vessel for fire.

Crowley lays Aziraphale out on his bed and starts with his back, covers the scars there with constellations – ones he's created, that sparkle in the deep indigo of the night sky; and ones that were merely thoughts in his head when he was tossed away.

While he works on those, perfecting his technique, Aziraphale busies himself manipulating the iron – Crowley's fireplace poker, may it rest in peace – that will become Crowley's brand. He molds it with his fingers, bends it using strength and holy fire. When it's finished, he tosses it into the fireplace to heat while Crowley moves on to his arms, etching into them scales that cross over the angel's shoulders so it appears he's carrying a serpent with him always, draped protectively over his arms, its tail ending on the back of his right hand and its head on his left with an apple in its mouth.

Aziraphale sees it covering his flesh without a single scar visible and he glows, overjoyed.

"How do you handle heat, my dear?" Aziraphale asks when the two switch places.

"I _am_ a demon," Crowley quips, stretching out on his bed like a jungle cat, beyond satisfied that he could bring his angel so much happiness, "so pretty well, I'd assume."

Aziraphale reaches a hand into the flames and fishes out the metal plate. He barely needs to shield himself from the heat. The magic embedded in the marks Crowley gave him protect him from the fire. He grabs the plate about the edges and lifts it out. The black metal glows a fantastic red as he displays the relief to his demon. Aziraphale grins at Crowley's resulting surprise. "We're about to find out."

Aziraphale zeroes in on the spot he wants to cover, but he doesn't just set the plate on it and let that be that. He turns the process into a ritual. He takes ownership of his demon's body while he brands him, pressing the hot metal to his shoulder while he indulges, making love to him slowly, with the longest strokes he can manage – a feat which requires every ounce of his self-control. When Crowley comes and Aziraphale is spent, what's left on Crowley's shoulder is a pair of angel wings surrounding a flaming sword, and above that, a star divided into nine rays of holy light - the same star that led the Magi to the manger of the infant savior. It's a tongue-in-cheek reference, but one which, after Crowley explained it, Aziraphale adored. The Magi left their homes, their kingdoms, and followed that star in the hopes of finding Jesus Christ so that they could worship him.

Crowley would travel any distance, do whatever it took, to find and worship Aziraphale.


End file.
